Archive of Our Own

“How does this look on me?” Obi-Wan asks, emerging from the changing room with a flourish. He leans agains the doorframe and tilts his head at Cody, that one piece of hair flopping down into his eyes. 

Cody’s already in disguise, plain clothes with a hat that hides his scar. For some reason, though, Obi-Wan is in an excessively awful floral crop top that would only look at home in a botanical garden. “Good, but also, we’re going undercover on a planet full of criminals.” 

“Maybe they’re criminals with fashion sense,” Obi-Wan argues for the sake of arguing. 

“We’ll be meeting Rex, General Skywalker, and Commander Tano there. They’ll all take pictures and post them everywhere. Bly and Wolffe will know within seconds.” 

“Hm. Point well made, although I did like the pattern.” He wanders back inside holding a less lurid top. 

“You would’ve hated it after awhile. Too short.” Cody sits down on one of the cushions, cross-legged.

“Most likely. But I do enjoy the opportunity to dress up.”

“You don’t have to wear the exact same set of robes every single day. General Secura certainly doesn’t.”

“She dresses like that to annoy Quinlan. He’s of the opinion that she should be in full armor at all times, preferably sitting in a room made of bubble wrap on a distant planet nobody has ever heard of, eating homemade soup.”

“Still. You could mix it up. I’m sure she’d lend you some leggings.”

“No, that’s not for me,” Obi-Wan laughs. He comes out of the room in his ordinary Jedi robes, which is the opposite of what he’s supposed to be doing. Somehow, he’s sweaty and grimy, and his eyes are a glassy, reflective blue. “Cody.”

Cody frowns. “What’s wrong? Did you forget the mission?” 

The room around them starts to shift, the walls melting away. 

“Cody,” Obi-Wan repeats, more insistent. “Cody, stop!” He sounds terrified. 

“Obi-Wan, what’s happening?” The room is gone, replaced by a sheer cliffside that drops down to a pool of turquoise water below. There’s a weapon in Cody’s hands, and he’s turning it towards Obi-Wan, and there’s a voice in his head telling him that this is exactly what he was meant for. “No!”

He comes back to himself hunched against a wall muttering, “No, no, no,” under his breath. All he’d thought was that he needed a disguise, since the troopers were bound to be searching for him by now, and then he’d remembered just a fragment—and the biggest mistake of his life. 

Cody shakes his head. He’s got to keep going. Save all of this for later.

There aren’t many shipyards in this area of Republic City; it’s more governmental than anything else, and the closest yard is military. They’ll be looking for him over there, and they’ll know exactly what he looks like. 

However, there’s one place that will have ships—the yards outside the Senate building. As soon as he thinks it, the static rises, numbing his thoughts. He shouldn’t go there, he should turn himself in, it’s not too late—

Cody hurries towards the Senate building, stealing a hat and one of those commemorative shirts that say “I Heart Republic City” from a stall. If he tries, he can half-imagine Obi-Wan’s scathing reaction to it, and it makes him smile past the headache. The kitschy stores slowly disappear as he approaches the Senate building. It casts an imposing shadow, more intimidating than grand, with a giant, bright red Imperial banner fluttering over the door. The senators rush inside, like they can’t wait to leave the streets. 

Squadrons of stormtroopers patrol the area, mixed in with the senators’ personal guards. Cody rubs the skin around his eyes and winces at the dull ache. He has to focus, though, make note of the patrol patterns and how to avoid them. It’s harder than it should be. 

He waits for all of the senators to go inside the building; the second half of the day’s session always starts at 1300. While he’s waiting, he picks out his target—an aging corvette called Tantive IV. Something about it feels almost familiar, but he can’t quite remember why, and trying just makes his head hurt more. 

There are four guards standing outside, milling about and chatting with each other. Cody hides behind a line of fuel barrels, knees creaking as he ducks down. He’s going to feel that tomorrow. Probably the day after, too. He squints at the guards, sizing them up. They’re all armed with the same type of blaster pistol, some light armor, but nothing too problematic. Their gloves say the most, stiff and unmarked, not worn from continuous use. Honestly, they’re almost civilians. It wouldn’t be right to kill them, but he does have to knock them out, and emotionally, he needs to punch something. Maybe a few somethings. 

He sneaks forward, hiding behind crates and from multiple Imperial droids. Once he reaches the left side of the ship, he nudges at the crates so they’re unbalanced, and returns to the right side. 

Once he’s in position, he throws a piece of scrap metal at the crates, and they fall over with a distractingly loud crash. Cody winces at the noise, pressing one hand to the side of his head. 

Two guards break off from the ship to investigate. He jumps over the barrels in front of him and attacks the two who remain. They’re well-trained, but they haven’t been literally raised for war. As soon as he kicks one of them in the chest, a flicker of memory comes back, of him kicking a droid so hard it sparks, and he almost smiles. Although all the droid-kicking is responsible for the situation with his knees and lower back. 

The shouting attracts the attentions of the other guards, who rush back with blasters drawn. Cody backs up the gangplank onto the ship, and they stop firing. Afraid of damaging the ship?

One of the guards rushes towards him, and Cody gets in a punch to his nose, making him reel back. He grabs the guard by the collar, unbalances him with a well-placed foot, and is about to drop him when a voice from behind says, “Commander Cody?”

He glances back and sees a bearded senator, expression halfway between shock and disbelief. “What?” Nobody in the Empire knows his name—just his number.

“Cody—please put my guard down. He’s just doing his job,” the senator says, in a strangely familiar way. 

Cody frowns as the one remaining guard enters the ship, aiming his blaster at Cody’s back, and lets the one he’s holding slump to the floor.

“Don’t shoot him, he’s a friend,” the senator says to the guard, who lowers his weapon reluctantly. “Why don’t you come inside, sit down? It’s good to see you.”

Cody knows for a fact that he looks less like a friend than someone being actively hunted by the law, in his novelty shirt and truly awful hat paired with the sweaty military fatigues. And the blood. No, a senator is much more likely to lull him into a false sense of security and then call him in. “Look, no disrespect, but I don’t know or trust you.” He can technically still fight his way out of this one; what’s a few blaster bolts when it’s his freedom on the line?

The senator takes note of Cody’s uneasy glance and gestures for his guard to leave. “I don’t think you’ll accept my promises, but is there anything I could do to help you trust me?”

His knee-jerk reaction is No! Gods no! Get away from me! Cody chews on his lip; he’s trying to stay calm, keep in control of the situation, but everything in him is screaming to run, and his head is really starting to hurt now. “How do you know me?”

“You don’t remember?” The senator‘s forehead wrinkles in worry. “We weren’t the best of friends, but we were at least acquainted. You came to my rescue on multiple occasions during the Clone War.”

Cody shakes his head. “I just need to get off this planet.”

“I agree with that, but do you mind if I ask how you got here? And where you were?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Cody mutters under his breath.

The senator finally looks a bit peeved. “Alright, if you want to fight me every step of the way, fine. Do you know where you’re going, at least? You don’t have to tell me where.”

Cody stares the senator down, not intending to give a single damn inch. “Away.” 

“Obi-Wan, you had to pick the most standoffish, recalcitrant man in the galaxy, didn’t you?” the senator asks the ceiling, exasperated.

That’s the first interesting thing this senator’s said yet. “You know him? Obi-Wan?” 

“Obviously I—erm. Yes, I do. I was friends with Padmé, and Anakin was her husband—” His comm chimes at that exact moment. “Ah. We’re in session. Cody, if I ask you to wait here until five, could you do that? I know you don’t trust me, but I want to help you, if you’ll let me. And if you’ll pardon me saying, you look like you could do with a rest and a glass of water.” 

Cody closes his eyes, trying to remember a single scrap of information about this person, but there’s nothing. Not even a bit of feeling. But there’s something in the senator’s face that he trusts, or wants to trust. “Can I ask you one more thing? What’s your name?” 

“Bail Organa. I’m the senator from Alderaan.” He smiles, but not entirely happily, as if he wishes Cody could remember himself. 

Yeah, same.  

Cody watches him for any sign of subterfuge, any hint of betrayal, and finds only an honest smile. Finally, he nods. “I’ll wait.” 

“Thank you. And please feel free to take anything you like in the ship, I’ll make sure my guards leave you alone.” Bail nods politely at Cody, who can’t remember the last time someone was polite to him. 

His brain glitches for a second, and he gives a deeply awkward wave before disappearing into the ship.

Cody inches through the hallways, half-waiting for the trap to spring around him, but it’s a pretty normal place. Someone’s pinned a kid’s drawings up on the walls, showing different planets, a family; they start out crayon, but quickly work up to acrylics and then watercolors. It’s strange, for an Imperial ship to look so homey. Although the senator had said he was from a place called Alderaan; Cody vaguely remembers a green, lush world, but not much else.

He stumbles into a small mess—no—a kitchen. Not for military rations, for civilian food. Cooking. There’s a bowl of fruit on the table, pears and jogon and a large golden-yellow meiluuron. Part of him thinks, Things this nice aren’t meant for clones, and he crushes it viciously. 

He gets a glass of water first, drinking it and then another in quick succession. It tastes clean and fresh, not like the desalinated, metallic water on Kamino. Kriff, he’d forgotten water could taste good. 

After a moment, he cleans his face and hands in the cool water, and his headache fades a bit. He’s still half-tensed in case this is just a really elaborate trap. A trap with crayon art, a fruit bowl, and really karking good water.

He could get used to it.

Nobody’s around to see him, so Cody sneaks over to the table and carefully picks up the meiluuron. It’s ripe, or at least, smells sweet and tart and karking delicious. He hunts down a cutting board and medium-sized knife and slices the fruit open, peeling himself a slice that glistens with juice. 

This is best thing he’s had in years; sweet as romance, floral and tart, and his mouth waters as he eats. It reminds him of the past, dim and fading as it is, a day in the sun with the man he loves as they walk through the streets hand in hand, and he finds he’s crying over a piece of kriffing fruit, the tears spilling down his face, the knife lying forgotten in his hand. 

Cody sits down on the floor with his back to the counter, wiping away hot tears. He doesn’t even know where Obi-Wan is. If he’s alive. But he wants to believe, has no choice but to believe, that there’s even a fucking shred of hope. 

The crystal in his pocket shines, and he clutches it tight. There’s hope—giving in had been easy, a numb darkness, but new hope burns in his chest like a spark of starlight, and he finally has a reason to hold onto it. 

He can barely think past the pounding in his head; even the crystal can’t hold it off forever, but he’s always been stubborn. He rubs at his eyes and wishes he could go home, but he has no idea where that even is. Wherever Obi-Wan is, right? 

“Wow. Are you okay?” a voice asks. 

Cody jumps a kriffing foot into the air and skitters back, fumbling for his vibroblade. “Back the hell off,” he growls, his voice thick and rough. 

“Hey, chill out.” A kid crawls out from an air vent in the wall, face streaked with grease and grime. She’s not even a teenager yet, dressed in a white tunic, her hair swirled into two buns that sit over her ears. The hairdo reminds him oddly of Ahsoka, if she’d had hair.

Cody puts the knife down, guilt bubbling in his stomach. 

She sits down next to him, cross-legged. “Why were you crying? Meiluurons aren’t that good.” 

“Who are you?” he asks instead. 

“Uh... not supposed to be here. But you aren’t either, so... why were you crying?” She watches him closely, with intelligent brown eyes. Something about her seems strangely familiar, but that’s impossible. 

Cody shrugs. “I was remembering something.” 

“And it was sad? What was it?” 

“My—my husband. I was just missing him,” he admits. Even that much makes his chest and throat tighten. 

Her little face creases. “Oh, I’m sorry. Are you at least going back to him soon?”

“I don’t know.”

The little girl chews on a piece of loose hair and then arrives at a decision. “I was holding onto him while my dad’s in session, but I feel like you need him more than I do.” She holds out a tiny toy clone trooper. “It’s Commander Cody. He’s my favorite.”

Cody stares wordlessly down at the action figure, armor marked with achingly familiar paint. The fact that these were made at all is deeply confusing, strangely conflicting. He hadn’t even known, and someone out there had been profiting on his image. For what? Why? This toy soldier is more Commander Cody than he is, at this point. “Thank you.”

“No problem. I brought others with me for backup, just in case.” She starts to retreat into her vent again. “Wait! I’m Leia. What’s your name?”

He debates lying for a moment, and then says, “Cody.”

Leia stares at him in shock, eyes flicking to the scar on the side of his face. “I’m a karking idiot.”

“Don’t swear,” he scolds without even thinking. 

She brushes that off, scooting closer to him. “My dad talks about you and all the other clones all the time! I mean, not on Coruscant, because everyone’s listening there. You must know so much stuff! How did you get here? I thought you were—well, my dad said there was some kind of chip that made you do bad stuff.”

“Um. I don’t really know.” 

“Are you going to—” she leans in “—are you going to join the Rebellion? Is that why you’re talking to my dad?”

Cody instinctively shies back, expecting a burst of censorship static that never comes. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Wow. You don’t know, like, anything.” She tilts her head at him. 

“Nope.” 

“That seems annoying. My dad doesn’t tell me a lot either, so I usually steal stuff when he’s not looking.” Leia pauses for a second, chewing on her hair. “D—don’t tell him I said that. Then he’ll up his security again, and that’s such a pain.” 

“I won’t,” he promises. 

“Thanks!” Leia grins and scrambles up, dragging Cody with her. “Want some marshmallows? Mom always says dessert is only for after dinner, but I think this situation calls for marshmallows!” 

Cody’s internal parent rears his head and agrees loudly with Mom Organa. “Hm, do you think there’s hot chocolate in here, too?” 

“Yeah!” She practically beams, jumping and pointing at the cabinet with hot chocolate mix. 

When Bail Organa comes back, Cody and Leia are definitely not roasting marshmallows over the stovetop and getting melted sugar on everything, a lineup of Cody’s toy brothers dusted with powdered sugar and sprinkles. 

“Dad!” she yelps, diving behind Cody. “Me and Commander Cody were just having a marshmallow party...” She makes an attempt at looking contrite, and she reminds him of Fives about to get one hell of a scolding from Rex. 

Bail shakes his head, shifting into lecture mode. “Leia, how many times have I told you not to sneak onto the ship? Does your mother know where you are? What about all of your classes?” 

“Um... I’ve been blocking her comms from reaching the ship, but she knows I’m here,” Leia admits, scuffing the floor with one toe. 

Bail’s stern frown lasts about three seconds, and then he breaks. “Alright, that’s quite resourceful. Although next time, please just ask, instead of hiding in the ventilation system.” 

“I like crawling around the vents,” she mutters petulantly, but otherwise mollified. “Do... you want some marshmallows?” 

“Yes,” Bail sighs. He joins Cody and Leia by the stove and starts roasting a marshmallow on a fork. “So, Commander.” 

“Hello,” Cody says quietly. “I still don’t remember who you are, but your daughter’s told me a lot about you.” 

“And?” 

Leia sticks a hand between them to grab a square of chocolate and a few graham crackers, then hops onto the counter to munch on an assembled s’more. The gooey marshmallow sticks to her fingers and gets all down the front of her shirt. When she looks up at them, she has a chocolate mustache, and she grins at both of them. 

Cody smiles, despite himself. “I think I want to trust you.” 

Bail claps Cody on the shoulder. “That’s good to hear, old friend. Or shall I count you as a new friend?” 

“Both, if possible.” His head starts to pound again, and he sits down heavily in a kitchen chair. 

“Leia, could you go to my room and get our guest a change of clothes?” Bail asks, and Leia nods once in understanding and scurries away. “I hope you don’t mind a bit of marshmallow on your new clothes."

“Anything’s better than these,” Cody mutters, rubbing at one aching knee. “Gods, I got old.” 

“We all did.” Bail sits down next to him. “Are you feeling alright?” 

“Killer headache, bad knees, bad back.” He tries for a smile and doesn’t quite make it. “So… not bad, for me” 

“Now I’m even more impressed that you took down my guards. Clearly your martial skills have not faded.”

Cody shrugs. Sure, he’s kept muscle memory, but there are a lot of memories that he just doesn’t know are missing. 

“What else do you remember?” Bail asks. 

“Not much, or at least, not anything that might be useful. They never told me more than strictly necessary,” he says bitterly. He's just a clone; admittedly treated better than the CTs, but still not an equal, and certainly not trusted with sensitive information. 

Bail shakes his head and clarifies, “I meant about your life. You’ve forgotten me, which… I’m not too insulted. We didn’t know each other that well. But what about other people? Anakin, Rex, your brothers?”

“I have most of my memories about them back, I think, but there are holes. It hurts to remember everything, especially Obi-Wan—and then—I think I—on Utapau, I think I might have k—” Cody can’t even say it. “I don’t know if he’s still—”

 Bail immediately takes Cody’s hand to reassure him. “Don’t worry, he’s alive.”

About a thousand tons of weight drop from Cody’s shoulders, and he sags in his chair like he’s been punched. He rubs at his face, barely able to find the right words to say. “I’m sorry I’m—it’s—” He sinks back into silence, emotions overwhelming his words. Obi-Wan is alive. 

Of course he’d be. Somewhere in the wide galaxy, probably doing his damn best to fight the Empire wherever he is. Probably with those rebels Cody’s heard about. Maybe there are brothers fighting with him, ones who managed to evade Order 66. He’d put his money on Rex and the 501st any day. 

“It’s a lot. Please let me know if you need anything.”

Cody nods, pinching and twisting at the back of his hand, trying to calm down, not betray any more emotions. He’s almost certain by now that Bail Organa is trustworthy; no Imperial agent could fake being nice for this long. But he can’t shake the feeling that he’s got to keep everything a secret, that at any moment, the chip will start censoring his thoughts again until he’s been completely edited away.

He doesn’t want to forget Obi-Wan again, not ever, but—“Was he angry at me?” he asks, voice a whisper. “Did he think I betrayed him? Because I didn’t want to do it, but they made me, and—and—I couldn’t even say so until today.” His emotions take a roller-coaster dive from unspeakable happiness all the way down to stomach-churning dread. “He hates me, doesn't he?”

Even though the chip isn’t active, he swears he feels it protesting inside his head, telling him everyone is dead, it’s useless, Obi-Wan hates him, he should give up, he should love and serve the Empire. He scowls and rubs at the side of his head, wincing as he presses too hard against the sensitive skin. A burst of static whites out half the world, and the rest starts to spin and swirl with the surge of panic that follows, because it can’t be back, he just escaped, he’s not going back to the Empire. He’d rather die. Red speckles his hands, and he realizes the strange warmth dripping down his face is blood.

Someone’s grabbing his arm—he flinches back without thinking, not knowing who they are. He grabs for the crystal in his pocket, but despite its gentle warmth, it doesn’t help, and he starts to vanish into the yawning emptiness that stretches in front of him.

Tell him I’m sorry.

Then the static surges into a wave that washes everything away, and he’s gone.